Aristocracy of the Night
by KiaraNightshadow
Summary: A VtM story: A twisted relationship between a Nosferatu and Tremere gets even more heated. Out of sight is in no way out of mind. --Chapter Five up-- R&R please
1. Chapter 1

Aristocracy of the Night

Chapter One

Disclaimer: This story started out as a Vampire: the Masquerade LARP, which I loved so much that I decided to take the time to write down the general idea of it. Dialogue, characters, and storylines have been omitted in order for the story to make sense. Most of the characters belong to me, but there are a few that are RPed by my friends that were too important to get rid of.

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As I gaze around the room from beneath long, dark lashes, I can't help but chuckle to myself. _This is all that the Camarilla has to offer in our deepest time of need? We are so fucked, so fucking fucked._

Tristan Beck, my Sire, Regent and closest person to "friend" status in my book, stands up in front of his small audience. Automatically, he smoothes his dyed black hair, straightens his tie, and carries out other very vain, very _human_ motions to keep his appearance professional and orderly. The room quickly grows quiet, and he takes a few moments to revel in the attention before introducing himself, speaking with a heavy Austrian accent that is not unpleasant.

Tristan is reasonably attractive, but I've never thought of him as any more than that. Our relationship was one of respect since the beginning, though I am aware he has always wanted more. However, since Tremere tend to look down upon in-Clan friendships, he had to fight fang-and-claw to even keep me as an Apprentice of his. It can be uncomfortable being alone with him at times, but there are always worse options.

My eyes follow the seats in front of the slightly raised stage. Loki Kokopelli is seated closest to the door, his blue eyes shadowed by a black cloak's hood. As I entered this Gathering with Tristan, he was the first person I saw. Though Tristan had acknowledged the Nosferatu as an old friend, I hadn't recognized Loki's face. Now, I took the time to commit him to memory for future reference; I particularly linger on the way his light skin glows against his dark hair. My eyes hesitate over him for a moment before moving to the female Nosferatu, Elizabeth, at his left. "Loki, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" she'd said not long after we'd entered. There was something about the way she'd said it that struck a nerve in me.

There are several seats between me and Elizabeth, but to my direct left is a Brujah named Damon Orso. Despite introducing himself as a scholar thousands of years old , he does not even slightly resemble the part. For a moment, this lack of traditionalism is a comfort, but then I see the Brujah is wearing sandals. I roll my eyes.

A few more Kindred populate the room, but none of them matter to me.

Tristan explains the situation, but I tune him out. I've heard the story a million times and have grown desensitized to it: Lodin, the old Prince of Chicago, is gone; Lodin's entire hierarchy is gone; the old Regent is gone. Supposedly, the Sabbat came in and terrorized them, but no one knows for certain. The vampires left in the room are all that remains of the Greater Chicago Realm. Again, I chuckle softly.

Finally, Tristan announces the point of this Gathering: Chicago must have a new Camarilla Prince.

I am in no position to be in charge of a city, so I let everyone else decide. I remember instead the look of vulturous vigor on Tristan's face when he received the phone call to come to Chicago; I remember my excitement at being able to start fresh, of finding new contacts and dragging up resources the Old Chicago left behind; I remember finding Ghouls that suit and compliment my interests better than anyone else; I remember—

"Kiara Nightshadow," Tristan begins frostily, though I am certain from his tone that his bitterness is not directed towards me, "do you agree with Mr. Cole's observation?"

I quickly replay the past few seconds in my head and choose my words carefully before speaking; it is always wise to watch your tongue around a Tremere Regent when you're only a lowly Third Circle Apprentice, even if his position is only temporary. There can only be one Regent of Chicago, and I have no doubt in my mind that, though both of them possess the title, the full glory of Regency would go to Mr. Beck. "Mr. Cole suggests Draven LaCrow as our next Prince _because_ he is Lasombra, but I believe a Prince should be chosen based on his ability to lead others and measured based on how those others are lead, if at all."

"A Prince is nothing without loyal followers," a Toreador I never bothered to remember the name of agrees.

"Nonsense," someone else speaks up. "Princedom goes to the toughest asshole out there. If he can't hold his position, how can he stabilize a city?"

"Well, then." The Lasombra rubs his hands together. "If anyone so objects to me being Prince, speak now or forever resent your silence." No one contests, so he climbs onto the stage next to Tristan and continues, "Good. Tristan, you're my Seneschal and acting Harpy. I'll pick a Sheriff after I find someone suited for the position."

"Now that's more like it," Gunnar Svensson, a burly Gangrel, praises.

The room disperses as everyone attempts to grab the Prince's attention after a short, informal speech. Tristan soon after approaches me with a flare of irritation in his eyes. He lowers his voice so only I can hear. "Mr. Cole utterly disregarded my specific instructions. He was to remain silent while I privately interviewed potential candidates for Prince. Now we have this…_Lasombra pirate_ who we know nothing about running the city."

"Why didn't you speak out while you had the chance?"

"That would result in both disrespecting the would-be Prince and the other Regent of Chicago. It would not have been wise."

I take a moment to think this over. "A Tremere Regent with as little Thaumaturgy as he has won't last long. How he ever managed to come to power is beyond me. Given time, he will die or be overthrown."

Tristan's anger gradually settles, but I know from experience that he will not completely relax until Mr. Cole is dead.

"If you want, I could Levinbolt him across the city for you," I tease, though half of me waits for his order to do just that. Of course, Tristan refuses the offer.

Once Tristan is calm enough, I leave him to Prince Draven before I join the thin crowd on the other side of the room. Mr. Cole is there, accompanied by Loki and a female Brujah who is not even slightly interested in their conversation.

"So you're Regent?" Loki asks, an amused look on his face.

Mr. Cole, not at all alarmed at a non-Tremere referencing a piece of the Tremere pyramid, nods smugly and launches into a story about how he was on the front lines fighting against the Sabbat and protecting the former Regent.

"Huh," Loki muses. "How'd that go?"

"He…" The arrogance is immediately wiped off his face. "He was killed."

"I see. Good job with that, then."

I hide a smirk as I sit in their circle. Mr. Cole quickly recovers from the insult and begins bragging about the amazing feats he has accomplished to get where he is while I mentally make a note of how many more slip-ups he makes. He reaches nine before we are joined by someone I've never seen, someone who Loki and Mr. Cole ignore. Carpenter is his name, he says, and I shake his hand politely.

His hand is warm.

"So why are you here?" I ask as nonchalantly as I can while the red flags go up in my head.

"I heard there was a party here and I thought it'd be fun enough for me to join," is his smooth reply. He kicks his feet up on the chair in front of him as he sits.

"And which family do you come from?" I ask, my wording careful in case he's…unwelcome.

He simply grins at me.

"Oh," I say, reading the look on his face. "You're a Ghoul."

"Yes." He isn't lying.

Prince Draven joins us then, his blindingly loyal puppies at his heels. I explain Carpenter's presence just as Loki and Mr. Cole step out, and the Prince reaches the same conclusion I did.

"Need your blood keg of the month?"

"Yes," he responds in a flat voice.

"Which Clan was your last Regnet from?" Prince Draven presses.

Carpenter's grin widens. "Lasombra."

"Well, you're in luck. Come with me." The Prince leads him to a side room.

"I don't trust that guy," I mutter to myself, trying to fill in the silence when I realize I'm alone.

"Are you suggesting for even a moment that anyone here is so much as slightly trustworthy?"

I swerve at the voice, my hands instinctively grasping the hilts of the twin katanas at my waist, but I check myself before I draw them. It's only Loki.

He sniggers at my reaction. "Ever get the feeling that someone's right behind you, eavesdropping on your one-sided conversations?"

"Only when you're around."

"I see." He smiles. "Kiara Nightshadow, was it? The only female Tremere in the city?"

"As far as you know. Loki Kokopelli, right? The _other_ least trustworthy Kindred in Chicago?"

"Nope. No, that's not me. You must have me confused with someone else." With that, he abruptly vanishes.

I continue to stare at the space Loki occupied only a second ago and shake my head. "What a strange, strange man."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

--/--

Eternity is a long time. While this _sounds_ redundant, many neonates Embraced into Kindred unlife seem to forget how long it really is. A newly created vampire can spend years coming to terms with what he is and still not fully accept himself. After a certain point, if he cannot be removed from self-pity, many decide to…take a dance in the sun. Forever is simply too pressing, and being a monster that long is often considered a curse.

I don't see what the fucking deal is.

I've never understood it all. I love everything about being a vampire. I was brought into the world at such an early age that it's really all I know. For as long as I can remember, I've been trained to be a beast. I would even dare to say that I was born to become a vampire.

With 116 years to think, I've noticed the astonishing ways that the mortal and supernatural worlds parallel each other. On the streets of Las Vegas in the late 1800s, it was every man for himself; the only difference in modern Chicago, after the sun sets, is that it's done out of plain sight. The kill-or-be-killed style overwhelms most neonates. To me, it's a thrill that cannot be satisfied by any other means.

A group of Kindred can be related to a wolf pack: they work together to bring down foes, but if the Alpha shows any sign of weakness, then the rest of them jump on him like, well, savage beasts. The best way to survive the inevitable civil war is to gain allies.

And that is precisely what I am doing.

I cannot rely on my Clan. Tristan is much too weak to be of any use in a fight. Though he is intelligent, so are many other Kindred in Chicago. Unlike Mr. Cole. He's just an idiot.

So who did that leave me with? Strangely enough, Loki Kokopelli. Teaming up with a Nos has never been beneath me. And, simply put, he made the best impression the night before.

Secretly usurping the number of one of Loki's Ghouls from Tristan's Blackberry had not proven difficult, and from there it was simple enough to have the Ghoul put me in contact with his Regnant himself. After that, all I had to do was make Loki an offer he couldn't refuse.

The sewers are surprisingly clean—at least Loki's section is. Most paths allow two people to walk side by side, but there are places where Loki has to lead. During these times, I wonder what goes through his mind, if he thinks that I'd jump him.

He has no reason to fret, at least for the moment. Even if I did mean him harm, I'd lose. Horribly.

After winding through many corridors deep beneath even the sewers, we finally stop in a large fully-furnished chamber. He lights three blue candles on a small table in one corner, and the candlelight plays with the shadows across his face. For the first time, I see the bleakness hidden deep in his sunken eyes. A Nosferatu's mask conceals only enough so a vampire isn't a breach of the Masquerade and can walk among the mortal population without drawing unneeded attention. The puss-filled boils, open wounds, and other shameful deformities may vanish for a time, but the disguise could not shield a certain loneliness in his eyes. They remind me of a moon's crater; black and distant.

When he speaks, there is an edge of curiosity in his voice as well as a certain pride. "What brings you here? To me, specifically?" I can hear the suspicion rising in his voice.

I purposefully eye the king-sized bed before slinking over to him. My finger trails through the soft satin of his cloak. Every movement planned perfectly; deliberate, measured precise. All to get the right reaction from him, as if I've done it a million times.

"I believe I've already stated my end of the deal." I smile coyly, flashing a bit of fang as I gently tug at his cloak. "I'll show you a good time in exchange for a small form of payment. A Boon, perhaps?"

"Hmm…" he grumbles thoughtfully, his eyes glinting mischievously. A part of him coils like a jaguar about to pounce, and I know I've snared him. "What level of a Boon would you request?"

"We can discuss that later."

I can almost visualize the wheels turning in his head as he considers the different possibilities, finally deciding the reward is greater than the price.

I've left my trench coat (and twin katanas, sadly—I feel their absence as gaping holes in my sides) at the Chantry as a small symbol of assurance that I wouldn't hide anything. The hollow cavern seems to echo desolately as he slips my belted black jacket off my shoulders. A few seconds later, a pile of clothes is strewn on the floor and me feet are swept from underneath me. My katanas, though they should be at the forefront of my thoughts, are swiftly forgotten.

His lips press against mine as we hit the bed, and I cannot help but be devoured by his bittersweet kiss. It has been a long time since I last had sex, and though being a vampire has eliminated the blissful climax of the orgasm, that doesn't stop it from feeling fucking good. No pun intended.

Loki's lips trail to my neck, and I expectantly wait for the fangs to sink in when I hear him muttering, his lips softly brushing the tender skin. As I realize what he's doing, I jerk away instinctively, but to no avail; I feel the magic, his magic, invade and manipulate my body.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" I snarl, preparing to draw upon my Levinbolt. "Why the fu—" I stop short, my lungs craving something unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I breathe in, then exhale, readjusting to the new rhythm.

Why would Loki perform a ritual to make me start breathing again?

"Dominoe of Life," he explains, the spark in his eyes returning. "It allows me to grant anyone with a human quality. The effects are not permanent, but they'll last just long enough for what we need."

Slowly, so slowly, I relax in the bed. He watches my reaction carefully.

"Don't ever…_ever_…do anything to me without my permission again," I sneer with contempt, making no attempt to sugarcoat.

Loki's eyes level with mine, meeting my challenge but wondering how far I would allow the line to be crossed. In the end, he asks if, because I know the ritual's general effects, he could use it on me again to enhance the pleasure of our experience. With more than enough reluctance, as well as many mental chidings on my own part, I agree—on the condition that I could beat the unliving shit out of him if he crossed me. Grinning devilishly, he mutters the ritual's activation phrase, motioning boldly with his hands. Again, his magic intrudes, but I am better prepared for it this time.

With a small thud, my heart scurries in my chest, as if laboring to make up for lost time. My breath quickens to keep up with the frantic, drum-like pace.

One more time, before I can oppose, Loki performs the ritual. This time, the change is subtle; a dull heat washes over my inner thighs. For the first time in ages, I actually have a sex drive.

The thought of whoring myself to a Nos had never repulsed me, but suddenly the idea almost seems…biologically necessary. Not only that, but, as if in heat, I actually want it, crave it. I know I should be killing this guy, I realize, but I cannot bring the prevailing part of myself to see why.

What has he done to me?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

--/--

A warrior's body is a valuable resource, her mind a precious tool. Having either one manipulated is akin to, and many times worse than death.

But just this once, even though it goes against everything I stand for, I was going to make an exception.

We lie naked, our bodies closely entwined. There is an unnatural coolness to Loki's skin which I hadn't noticed before, and on the few occasions where he caresses the small of my back, shivers travel up my spine.

Slowly, a peace I never believed to be possible and unlike any other washes over me. More alluring than the scraping of metal, the marriage of flesh and sword. Coming from someone who lives for nothing else, that says a fucking lot.

_Why are you still here? _a distant part of me asks. _You've done your deed; leave before he decides to get a free night._

Loki's hand absently brushes my hair away from my cheek. There is such foreign tenderness in the act, as if I'm made of spun glass, that it touches my heart, anchoring me to my spot. I try telling myself that it was the blood I drank from him that makes me so reluctant to leave. Gradually, it becomes my truth, and I hide behind it gratefully.

_No one knows you're here; you're in danger._

Of course, Tristan could never know of our meeting, could never know a Tremere was one point blood bonded, not to anyone. He could send me off to Vienna…if he didn't kill me first.

_Danger!_

The sex was more than I could ever hope for. If there'd been windows in the room, they would be fogged. It was disappointing, though; I know that I'll forever compare every other time to this night, and nothing would be able to live up to it.

It wasn't just the Ritual, either. If I was to be openly honest with myself, I'd say the man has stunning talent. Those hands of his could do wonders to a woman's body.

_As if he's done it a million times._

An indescribable, taunting emotion suddenly spreads through me, and I hesitate. I don't realize that I've tensed until Loki asks, "What's wrong?"

Unable to find accurate enough words to explain something even I don't understand, I ask instead, "Why have you brought me here, to your haven, where you sleep? You don't think I'll send one of my Ghouls in one day to stake you?"

I realize then the extent of the power he holds over me, both physically and emotionally. Not only do I waver, even momentarily, over the thought of bringing him harm, but his fingers trace the lines of my throat in a manner that I'd consider threatening if anyone else had done it.

This is why Tremere are strictly forbidden to be blood bonded.

I sigh inwardly. The only reason why I even drank from him, and he from me, was to amplify the peak of the orgasm. Giving The Kiss was an impulsive and almost instinctive reaction brought by years of…practice. I'd just never drank from a vampire that I hadn't killed immediately afterwards.

But killing Loki? Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible.

"My dearest," he begins softly, "do you really think anyone would survive traversing the sewers for any amount of time?"

No. Of course not. Especially not if their target was a Nosferatu Elder. Damn, do I know how to pick my victims or what?

I brood for a few minutes, my mind conjuring the worst case scenario. Tristan would find out from my strange behavior, I'd have to endure the torture that is Vienna, all for some Boon. Life is fucking funny.

"Stay with me?"

I stiffen. "What?"

"There are only a few hours until sunrise. Don't leave when it rises. Sleep here."

My still-beating heart flutters at the longing in his voice. Though the invitation is difficult to decline, I try to keep a clear head as I answer. "Coming here is one thing," I explain. "Staying would be placing a level of trust in you that I just don't have."

"Little minx, you should never trust me," he counters lightly. "You should never trust Tristan. You should never trust Mr. Cole. You should never trust Draven. You should never trust anyone but yourself." I feel the subtle ache behind his words, and it fills me with doubt; have I wanted to trust Loki, wanted him to trust me?

"What a dark, lonely world this is," I muse, deflated.

Loki strokes my hair. "It can be, but it is necessary for our survival."

"You're not helping."

He chuckles calmly. "I have no doubt that…telling someone who I really am, who I was, would lift a great burden from my shoulders. However, I am content to spend however long it takes to find someone truly worthy of sharing this familiarity if it means possibly expanding my unlifespan."

"Everyone gets lonely, Loki."

"That we do. It's not so bad, really."

"But you can't trust anyone but yourself," I tease.

"Ah, but I said you _shouldn't _trust anyone but yourself," he reminds me. "It may or may not happen."

I had no idea one man could be so intriguing.

Either despite this or because of it…I stayed.

Early the next night, I slip out of Loki's arms, careful not to disturb him. I reach into a velvet pouch on my belt, write a small note, and place it along with a small rounded stone on his bookshelf where he's sure to see it after I've gone.

Seconds later, I feel his eyes on me again, tracing the length of my body. If he saw what I did, he doesn't comment on it.

Naturally, before I leave, he lures me back into his bed. Hours later, I walk out carrying his infertile seed inside me and with a special kinship growing between us. I do not wait to see his reaction to my gift, nor do I attempt to ask him later.

I return to the Chantry after a short walk, where I recite my story to Tristan; I was out hunting Sabbat last night, was ambushed, and crashed with one of my Ghouls, who would also know what to say if Tristan ever asks. Luckily, I was able to heal my wounds before returning, though I had no trophies to show for my hard work.

He accepts the lie without question.

I retreat to my private training room, replaying the past few nights to myself and smiling the first genuine smile in a long, long time.

The note underneath the crystal reads seven simple words in elegant script. It is signed "K".

_You don't have to be alone anymore. _

--/--


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

--/--

Rules and guidelines all Kindred should know, understand, and follow:

1. Don't ever leave any part of yourself (limbs, blood, belongings) behind.

2. Don't ever look another Kindred straight in the eyes unless you plan on, and are more than capable of, mentally dominating them.

3. You aren't paranoid if they really are out to get you—and they always are.

4. Question everything; never take things or people at face value.

5. Play both sides of the fence. The more people you can get to listen, the more people will be willing to trust you.

6. Be a valuable resource. If you're an irreplaceable asset, you'll live longer.

7. Everyone is lying. About everything. Always.

8. Never Frenzy, especially on Elysium.

9. If the Nosferatu or Malkavians leave, get the fuck out.

10. Get people indebted to you, not the other way around. Have all debts on both paid off as quickly as possible; the person who owes you may not be here tomorrow.

12. No matter how close you think you are to someone, if you say or do something stupid, they'll report you to someone who matters more.

13. There are_ always_ strings attached.

14. Never show off. You'll either be considered a threat or a plaything, and neither is desirable.

15. If it seems too good to be true, it is.

16. There is a reason why Clan stereotypes are so universally known. Heed them, but don't let on that you do. Kindred, especially Gangrel, tend to be touchy when people treat them like idiots, even if they are (especially if they are).

17. Don't write anything down that can be traced back to you. It's better to have a good memory.

18. Keep your thoughts and emotions in check. There are Kindred who can use them to their advantage.

19. Vampires remember everything, and they always hold grudges.

20. Elders can do scary shit. Respect them. Befriend them, if possible (though it usually isn't).

21. Never, under ANY circumstances, fall in love.

--/--

How many rules was I breaking simultaneously?

Tristan smoothes an uninteresting piece of paper on a mahogany table in the Chantry's library. I pretend to study it, my mind instead wondering what Loki could possibly be up to. It has almost been a week since I saw him last, and I'd been hoping to catch up with him Friday night to…work out the details of his debt. Instead, it was almost Monday morning, and there hadn't been a word from him. What had Tristan's Ghoul Ilsa said not a week ago? She'd brought up something about her past human mate. What was it? The Three-Night Rule?

Oh yeah. If he doesn't call within three nights, his ass is dumped.

Wait…what am I thinking?

I hear the word "battle" uttered from Tristan's lips, and I instantly tune in. Drawn on the paper are the blueprints to a building, a warehouse from the looks of it. I've dealt with a lot of abandoned warehouses before; it was a cliché thing the Sabbat couldn't get rid of. There is a long hallway near the back, but the rest is open.

Without listening to any explanation from Tristan, I've managed to piece together nearly his entire story.

"So when do we strike?" I ask at the first sign of a pause.

"Tomorrow. We will meet up with everyone at Elysium, and those who are battle-ready will be lead near Navy Pier, to this warehouse. I suggest you contact your Ghouls who have infiltrated the police force and have mortals lead away from the area for the night. Do you have anything to add?"

I study the layout extensively, different scenarios playing in my head. "Here," I say, pointing to where the hallway opens up to the main room, "should be one of the first places we go. The Sabbat will want to place gunmen there for cover, and the faster we get there, the faster we can steal that strategy. Once we own it, they'll try to take it back, so we should have a little…surprise for them. Machine gun is a good option, and I'd go as far as to say a few flash grenades. I can easily cover our asses so it doesn't show up on the news. What's on the main floor?"

"Hostages. Dead bodies. Hostages about to become dead bodies."

Great. Our epic plan had a moral cause behind it. Why did we always have to constantly help people? Isn't that just a bit hypocritical?

"Other than that," Tristan continues, "the main floor should be empty. Knowing the Sabbat, there will be some torture equipment, blood spilled on the floor, everything that the mortals should have uncovered months ago. The hostages are most likely people who investigated the late night screams coming from the warehouse."

"That's one way to lure people in," I agree somewhat icily.

Damnit, why can't Kine take care of themselves?

Hours into the night, after covering and recovering every possible circumstance, Tristan and I finally have a solid battle plan. Knowing what I do about him, I can tell that he has no reason to suspect my blood bond. So long as I didn't give him a reason, the bond would wear off long before he figured it out. All I had to do was wait a month.

I retreat to my private study with only an hour left before sunrise. Books are scattered upon the desk, strewn across the floor, opened up to an assortment of pages with annotations from margin to margin and between the lines of Latin text. There is a human bed, also sprinkled with books, and a small sparring ring of my own creation in the corner, with a Potence forged self-standing wooden dummy gifted to me by Tristan. On the opposite corner stands a mini fridge, and somewhere on top of it a small television, hidden beneath another pile of books. Somewhere beneath the mountain is a digital clock. Chuckling, I brush off the mounds on my bed and, not knowing what else to do with my time, succumb to daysleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

--/--

11. Don't allow yourself to be blood bonded to anyone you can't kill immediately afterwards. It's way too complicated.

22. Don't fuck the Nos!

Let someone (vampire, Kine, animal) drink your vampire blood once, and they shall deeply respect you; do it again the next night, and they shall love you; feed them three nights in a row, and you hold absolute power over them. Their body, mind, will…all belong to you. Only death or separation for a year and a day are known widely as cures, so to speak. From my research of the Tremere Clan, there is another way: a Ritual to magically remove this bond. It is an excruciatingly painful process which involves draining the bonded one nearly dry, as if purging their system of the other vampire's blood. Dangerous, but quick and, at least in my eyes, better than the alternative.

Of course, try finding a Tremere who not only holds knowledge of this elusive Ritual, but you can trust to not kill you, accidentally or otherwise.

I've been blood bonded before. As a Ghoul, I had to endure the emotional slavery, the all-consuming obsession, the blinding and unconditional admiration. Twice, this happened. It's, in a strange way, a wonderful feeling. The pure dedication to one person…knowing their blood runs through your veins. Not even sex can hold a candle to the intimacy of a complete blood bond.

At the same time, it really sucked.

Now, things aren't that much different. Loki continues to battle for dominance of my thoughts, without him even being in my line of sight. I tried stuffing my face in books, so as to not alert Tristan, I tried mercilessly beating the crap out of Bobo, my wooden dummy, but Loki is always there. It just gets worse every night. My thoughts aren't my own. My heart seems to shudder in my chest as if recalling the strange sensation of beating under his chilling fingertips. I constantly seek excuses to leave the Chantry and flee to the sewers for another night, though never taking initiative to leave.

I even fucking wrote a poem.

Unconsciously, I squeeze the pocket of my belted jacket where I've hidden the little slip of paper. Fulfillment in Madness, I've fittingly named it.

Heart cold and still, now awakens to the bane

Foreign emotions kindled, all else seems mundane

Chased away my numbness, my frigid glacial shield

Nothing now but to succumb to this world revealed

Flames lick my fingers as the ashes produce anew

Crystalline eyes linger, haven't strength to subdue

Mind fills with images of that wintry, marble face

Dread in the realization that nothing can replace

(Author's note: This poem is MINE. Anyone found stealing this work and claiming it as their own will quickly find a boot shoved up their ass. I'm not kidding. You've been warned. © "Kiara Nightshadow" 2008)

There's no denying it: I'm about as pathetic as a lovesick puppy.

I can't even fight back. I know my mind should be screaming at me, I know the arguments it should be making—Loki is an Elder, I am a Neonate…Elders seduce newly created vampires into doing their bidding…I see it all the time.

But I guess that part of me just…doesn't care.

I see the folly in my own logic, but before I can begin warring with myself again, a shuffling brings me back to another battle. The one I should be concentrating on.

Two months ago, I would have loved nothing more than to charge blindly into the Sabbat-infested warehouse, swinging my katanas like a madman. It's what I'd been Embraced to do. It's why Tristan kept me around as his personal bodyguard. It's the closest to an adrenaline rush I could get. But tonight, I wanted to go home. Well, not exactly. I didn't want to go to the Chantry. I wanted _home._

The idea of ambushing a pack of Sabbat held an alluring edge the night before, but I'd been trying for the past half hour to find that again. What had changed since then? I hadn't seen Loki at Elysium, and I'd been expecting that to bring back a few flares, but he didn't show up. Maybe that was the problem.

My body instinctively follows the few Kindred in front of me, all of them Obfuscated by some juvenile Assamite. We surround the warehouse, silently getting into position. Just as the clock strikes 1:16, Tristan places his hand on the metal siding. I feel a slight tickling sensation from my heightened sensitivity to magic; a few seconds later, I know the cameras have suddenly "malfunctioned."

I feel the impression of time speeding up as, a few minutes later, the back door in the control room opens as two people, one blonde and one brunette, step out to investigate.

Already having identified them all as Sabbat, I sprint towards him, katanas unsheathed, my steps silenced by the Assamite's Silence of Death. In one smooth, fluid motion, I slash—the unsuspecting brunette seems to fall apart at the seams before dissolving into a pile of ash. Tristan does similarly to his buddy with his cane sword, but does so in two hits rather than one.

Draco, a female Gangrel that looks suspiciously like Jessica Alba, steps over the ash and ahead of us, two heavy pistols pointed in front of her. She finishes off the last Sabbat left in the control room in two soundless shots, thus ending the easiest and most boring part of our little mission. Maybe now I could find a suitable distraction.

All six of us file into the 12x14 room quickly: me, Tristan, Draco, the Assamite (Sean? Scott?), a male Russian Brujah holding an axe bigger than me, and one of his female Ghouls with a similar but smaller-scaled weapon. Before we can organize ourselves, the door bursts open and the room goes pitch black. Not black as in the lights have gone out, but black as in completely devoid of light with a noticeable drop in temperature.

Expecting a surge of energy to whip through the air, or claws to come swiping at me, I hit the floor, muttering a few selective phrases—curses among but, namely, magic. The air around my hands tingles and sparks begin to cackle and dance between my fingers. Within seconds, I've formed a ball of lightning in my palm. I give the signal for Tristan and everyone to stay back before I fire somewhat aimlessly at where I remembered the doorway to be. I don't see the bolt shoot across the room, but I hear the impact on flesh and an unfamiliar grunt.

Someone on our side recognizes the cue and charges forward. A shotgun goes off; a few seconds later, something thuds against the floor.

--/--

Sorry for the abrupt ending! I really don't like ending with cliffhangers all the time, but I'm kind of struggling to crank out the rest of the battle. I've never been the best at fight scenes, and it's been too long since another chapter was up.


End file.
